Old Friends
by the tsunamisurfer
Summary: A post OotP between two friends trying to overcome tragedy and guilt and might-have-been's. RLMM. Complete.


Title: Old Friends

Author: the tsunamisurfer

Rating: R

Dedicated to Sailor Juno with the best of birthday wishes and to Melanie-Matthews in recognition of a Most Important and Extraordinary Achievement. Much luck and love to you both.

---

The sky over the city was clear and bright two weeks after his best friend's murder. It served to Remus Lupin as a bitter reminder that no one knew Sirius Black was dead.

Mid afternoon. Though London in June was normally sweltering, he barely registered the temperature. He was numb with shock, unable to process the reality of Sirius' death as though it were some very advanced Arithmancy problem, all full of signs and numerics whose meaning and function he could not fathom. An altogether complete lack of sensation had settled on him, and it seemed no amount of light or heat could make him forget the memory of the night at the Ministry or stop his blood from running cold.

Crossing the neglected, graffiti-ridden square of Grimmauld Place, he made his way along the unkempt path to number twelve. 

The grief felt different this time around. James and Lily had been killed in late autumn, skies hanging in cloaks of mist for weeks afterward that had been as dark and unchanging as his memories of the time. He'd been stunned and broken by Sirius' evident betrayal and the deaths of not only James, Lily, and Peter, but by the murder of other Order members as well. 

The autumn of 1981 had been a terrible time to die. For those like him, it had been an even worse time to survive. 

The experience may have felt different, but that didn't make it any easier. The adages were false, he learned. Time never healed, not really. It only made you tired of remembering

He wanted to blame _It_, that other part of his consciousness that he had always been forced to keep in check. That thing which he must always balance out by being polite and good and kind. He wanted to believe that this intrinsic part of him was responsible for all the mistrust and resentment that he had carried with him since the end of the first war, now lingering like a flickering shadow on his mind since the Ministry attack.

But he knew it was false to believe so, at least in part. The truth is he was as imperfect a lycanthrope as he would have made a human. 

Remus tapped the door with his wand, allowing him access to the dismal secrets of Grimmauld Place. Much as he did not wish to be here some sense of duty compelled him to continue. It was not the Order for which he toiled, though Sirius would have wanted him to do so. He fought for those who could not. For those who had fallen, for Padfoot and Prongs, Lily and Dorcas, and for Benjy and Caradoc. He continued for those who were not yet involved, his former students and the children who'd found ways to smile even in the morbid shadow of the Black family home. Every departure from the Order of the Phoenix, by death or desertion, required a replacement. And he was not yet in the business of trading some lives for others. There were greater people with far more experience in those affairs than he possessed.

And Sirius would have expected Remus to go on. Padfoot was an arrogant bastard at times, but his sense of loyalty had oddly been the deepest of any Marauder. He'd survived Azkaban with his sanity. He would have expected the same breed of perseverance from old Moony.

And truthfully, that was all Remus simply wanted as well. He didn't need to waste another ten years trying to get over an insurmountable loss; he'd done that once in his life and lost years of living because of it. He was tired of playing the unslain martyr. Suffering the role of The Last Marauder was not an occasion he relished to go through again. . Sirius was gone, but Moony had already mourned for Padfoot long before his death. 

Voldemort stole his family. 

Time took his youth. 

Peter claimed his faith. 

With Sirius gone, it was hard to believe he had much left to lose. 

But he remembered Ginny Weasley sitting on the cold marble floor he now crossed, strains of bright laughter floating through his memory as vivid as her fiery hair. Hope was fleeting but there were some things that remained unchanged. 

Some things worth believing in. 

He found Grimmauld Place was silent throughout. The Weasleys had returned to the Burrow; Tonks was on duty with Kingsley; Dung was in Diagon Alley; the others…they were off somewhere too. Dumbledore would know where they all were. It wasn't Remus' responsibility to worry about, and he had no desire to be coddled and worried over. Space and time alone were what he needed more than anything else.

He was glad the house was empty.

---

Above all else, she was grateful to be alone. 

Curled up in a deep, velvet armchair, Minerva McGonagall sat by the window, hugging her knees to her chest and staring out at the backyards and gardens below. 

The various chambers throughout the house had been cleaned on several occasions in the time since the Order of the Phoenix had taken to meeting at Grimmauld Place. The room in which she now sat much have been recently scoured because the shifting afternoon light fell in streams of dazzling splendor across the floor. 

In sunshine Grimmauld Place was even more depressing than in darkness, she concluded. At least gloom it was harder to see that the years had not been kind to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Dumbledore had expressed his desire to see her take a few more days of rest to recover her strength after the end of term, and though Minerva was loathe to stay at Grimmauld Place longer than necessary she was smart enough to realize her weakness would contribute no greater purpose than serving as another vulnerability to the Order, still reeling to recover from the death of Sirius Black.

And so she gave in, which brought her to this forced rehabilitation at number twelve. The sharp, stabbing pains across her thorax had faded with the help of one of Poppy's soothing potions and a liberally applied infusion of moonstone and Ashwinder eggs. Only a dull soreness remained to remind her of the night she failed in her role as a protector of Hogwarts and the welfare of its students. 

The constant inflow of Order members had left her with someone constantly at her heels. Though they were kind and accommodating, the incessant presence of someone hounding her steps had quickly caused Minerva's already short supply of patience to shrink. 

Thankfully, Molly had left for the Burrow this morning, and the others were dispatched elsewhere for the time being leaving her alone for the remainder of the day with only her thoughts for company. Which suited her quite well. Thoughts were a company Minerva McGonagall kept more than any other, and there was a great deal to…assimilate, from the past few days. 

A great deal to come to terms with. 

The news Arthur Weasley had brought her in the days following the events at the Ministry still rang in her excellent memory as clear and resounding as a bell. As did the shame of knowing she was at fault for everything that had taken place that night, burning as strongly as it had upon delivery. Minerva was a rational person, and quite unaccustomed to storms of emotional culpability. Common sense told her she had not cast the spells. Logic told her that factors beyond her sphere of shaped the events that night. 

But she could not reason away this crime. In her heart, Minerva knew she had contributed to Sirius Black's death as much as any Death Eater had that night. 

She hated it: the war; the fear and quiet unease; the fluttering sensation of waking each morning and wondering absently if it would be the last time she did so. She took comfort in knowing things empirically, found peace in the safety of her science where transformation spells worked unfailingly when the right amount of will and work were applied correctly. She tried her best to take something away from everything she did, learning very quickly which mistakes could be rectified, and which could not. Though, she'd never quite learned to avoid them altogether, and as her most recent, and her greatest, error in judgment illustrated, all actions had their consequences. 

Spots of color dotted the half-collapsed fences and walls along the estate's edge where creeping vines and flowers tumbled recklessly in all directions as though unconcerned with gravity, sensible growth, and delineation of property rights. 

White knuckles on cherry wood. She bowed her head, acquiescing to the demons of her terrible fault, sensing the anger seeping from her fingertips into the deep, gleaming armrest. 

Brewing inside was anger at herself; anger at the injustice and contempt and racism so inherent to their world; at the image of trembling First Years and fearful Sevenths reading _Prophet_ headlines that would soon be reporting causalities and counting the dead; at Death Eaters that had once been children someone might have saved; at those who had not been able to.

At Voldemort, at Dumbledore; old scars and older scores. 

The rage overwhelmed her suddenly, pouring forth in a vicious eruption of movement. 

The glass shattered against the shining marble on the mantelpiece, falling in jagged bits on the grate below.

---

He heard the crash from above and tore from the sitting room up the stairs to investigate the unexpected clamor. Expecting to encounter violent doxies or a spiteful family ghoul, he was taken aback to find the familiar face of Minerva McGonagall the responsible party.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "It slipped."

Remus did not bother asking how the glass slipped fifteen feet across the room from where she was sitting. He understood. A bottle of Ogden's had slipped from his hands the week before. 

"Oh," he replied awkwardly, "I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I hadn't realized anyone else was here."

She rolled her eyes and blew a lock of stray hair from her face. 

"Solitary confinement I'm afraid," she answered, obviously nonplussed.

Taking in her appearance, he grew concerned. She was paler than he was accustomed to seeing her, eyes dark and downcast, focused on something outside this room. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" He asked warily.

She looked up from her perch on the edge of the windowsill as though she had just heard him come in.

"Yes, of course," she said tightly, then seeing the worry in his expression she added a hasty thank you. "I'm just…" she searched for a word that might do her situation justice. "Restless, I suppose."

He nodded in agreement. 

"I've never known place able to keep me on edge as much as these walls do," he said quietly. "The Shrieking Shack was always depressing, always more broken and run down each time I went back." 

His eyes swept around the once lavish bed chamber, now sparse and washed out. Traces of vivid color remained in the drapes, chairs, the fine cloth furnishing the divan before the fireplace, but either the passage of time or some other force had robbed the room of any shade other than drab gray or a watery, washed out green. Looking around, it was almost as though the ghosts of Grimmauld Place had been slowly sucking the life from the empty rooms.

"But this place is worse. More malevolent, somehow."

Her appearance had changed as he turned back to her again.

"Remus," she said, crossing to sit on the divan and motioning him to sit as well. "How are _you_?" she asked with kind uncertainty. He was right; this wasn't an easy place to live, even on its own accord. Knowing that it had once been Sirius' home made the dark, oppressive walls of Grimmauld Place far more difficult to bear.

He rolled his eyes.

"You're not going Molly Weasley on me, are you?"

"She means well, Remus," she answered, feeling slightly hypocritical for chastising him when she felt the same way.

"Yes," he replied, staring into the empty fireplace, watching the shards of broken glass sparkle on the soot-stained stone.

She said nothing, waiting.

"We weren't getting on very well," he confessed to the dark room, eventually.

"In the end?" she asked.

"No. In general, ever since he escaped," he answered, not looking up. "There were days, weeks, where we would be the only people in the house at the time and we still couldn't talk. And when we did manage to find something in the way of conversation it was always about Hogwarts, or Harry, or Dumbledore and the Order. We never spoke about ourselves, what we were thinking or feeling at the time. Never spoke about each other."

He was quiet for a moment. She let him think, knowing no matter what she said, it would not help.

"The way we were, around each other…it wasn't like it was before," he said, knowing it was stupid to have believed so in the first place.

"You knew it wouldn't be, and so did Sirius. Things had changed, _you_ had both changed, and neither of you are," she paused, wincing at her gaffe,"_were_ to blame for it. You were simply different, Remus. That is not a crime."

He looked up at her, silhouetted by the light pouring out like wine from window beyond, his face a mask of lines and shadows. She wished she had phrased it another way.

"You were here, Remus" she began again, "That counts for something, more than you give yourself credit for. It may have been that the only experiences you and Sirius shared were in the past, but I know it was a comfort to him that he was in this house and in this fight with his oldest and most trusted of friends."

He chuckled dryly.

"I don't know if he liked having me around all that much," he said rumpling his messy light brown hair so infused with gray. "I think I reminded him that he wasn't twenty anymore. When old friends start looking the part it, maintaining youthful delusions of grandeur becomes considerably harder."

The corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. 

"I hope you don't feel that way about all of your 'old friends'," she teased.

He blinked, realizing what she meant.

"I didn't mean _you,_" he clarified. "You were only a year or so above us. You're not old."

"Closer to three, but thank you all the same."

"By comparison I doubt most people would believe it," he gestured from the silver streaks mixed with gray to her own, still coal-black as ever. "A far cry from the way it used to be."

"I like it," she said, appraising him, "It's a distinguishing look. It suits you."

"I'm not sure I take much comfort in looking the part of a geriatric, distinguished or not," he replied, smirking. "Though the fact that you like it is of some consolation."

She smiled, feeling her cheeks warm slightly in a way that had nothing to do with the sun on her face.

"Should have expected it, anyway. It's been growing in that way since I was seventeen."

"It was hardly noticeable then."

"You remember something like that?"

She shrugged noncommittally. He wondered.

"I didn't know you well. Up at school, I mean, as children," he said to her, reflecting.

"What do you mean? We knew each other," she answered, puzzled.

"We knew_ of_ each other, maybe, but you played Quidditch, you knew James, _everyone _knew Sirius…why did I go three years before speaking to you?"

"I suppose it was because, despite being teammates with James Potter, you and I traveled in widely different social circles," she replied, quirking an eyebrow. "Namely, those who obeyed the rules and those who broke them," she said with a grin.

"True enough."

"Though we did cross paths on occasion, you'll remember."

"The dungbombs in the Ravenclaw common room?" 

She nodded.

"I'd forgotten about that. What was that, fourth year? You were a prefect then, weren't you?"

"Head Girl."

"Ah," he said, remembering. "Yes…that was the year you started Animagus training."

She drew back, surprised. 

"You knew about that? Those lessons were supposed to have been, well, _secret._"

"James and Sirius paid attention to you that year. They used to take turns following you to your practices with that woman from the Ministry."

"Well that explains how they managed not to kill themselves in the process," she snorted, shaking her head. 

A moment passed in silence, both remembering simpler times when a difficult spell or problematic charm had been the extent of their concerns.

"I miss them," he said quietly. "How it was before…everything."

He gave her a weak if sincere smile.

"You must think me a sentimental fool," he remarked, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

A pained look came over her features.

"Oh Remus," she said, surprising him by reaching out and embracing him, "I'm so sorry." Her voice was shaking as she spoke, and the tone of her voice was off. She said it so strangely, like an admission of guilt rather than as a statement of sympathy.

"It's all my fault," she whispered. He sensed her hot, tricking tears against his collar, prompting him to look down in confusion. Her head was bowed as he pulled away. Placing a finger under her chin he lifted her face to meet his gaze,

"What are you talking about?"

Her dark brows screwed up in anguish as she moved away from him towards the window again, closing her eyes against the offending glare. 

"If I hadn't acted so rashly I'd never have given Dolores Umbridge the chance…" she trailed off, leaning sideways against the window frame. "She must have been so vindicated—I walked straight into her trap."

He stood quickly, hurrying to her side and stepping into her line of sight.

"You were trying to protect Hagrid, just as Dumbledore would have done. Just as any one of us would have done."

"Would you?" she asked, meeting his gaze, "Would you have been so thoughtless and so _stupid_ to have allowed yourself into a situation like that?"

"She attacked you, unprovoked I might add, as you came to the defense of a friend. I can't think of anything more fitting for a woman whose job is to set the example of Gryffindor bravery."

"I was a fool," she said lowly.

"You weren't."

"He's dead because of me. He's dead because I wasn't there."

"You don't believe that," he said, stricken.

"Shouldn't I?" she answered, voice filled with miserable conviction. "If I had been there, I'd have been able to _show_ Potter he was being deceived he would have his godfather alive today. This house would not be without a Master and you without a best friend," she cried.

"Sirius is dead because Bellatrix Lestrange killed him," he said gravely, 

She drew a ragged breath and focused her clear gray eyes on him.

"I don't know how I could ever ask for your forgiveness. I'm not sure I even deserve it."

"Listen to me," he said resolutely placing his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "There is nothing to forgive. You aren't to blame for Sirius death any more than I am. Or Harry, or Severus, or Dumbledore for that matter."

"Come here," he said, hugging her again. She felt small and stiff in his arms, and he was reminded of the broken glass littering the fireplace. 

"When we found out what had happened the night you were Stunned," he said softly against her hair, "I was so afraid of losing you. We all were. Believe me when I say no one who knows you could _ever_ hold you responsible for what happened the night at the Ministry, least of all me. I mean that, and I hope you can trust an old friend to tell you the truth."

He pulled back, searching her face for an answer.

But she wasn't looking him in the eye anymore. 

"I believe you," she said.

Instead, her gaze had fallen down his face resting on his mouth, of all places. It struck him oddly at that moment how warm he had become in her presence.

"Minerva," he said, sliding his hand across her shoulder blade, exerting only the slightest pressure to pull her forward. It took very little.

Her lips were warm, brushing ever so slightly against his own. Tentatively she leaned into him, moving one hand across the thin, worn cloth of his robes, the other curling around his neck. It was a delicate moment passing between them like a fleeting remembrance of a mostly-forgotten dream. He waited for her to realize what she was doing, and who she was doing it with, before pushing him away. 

If he anticipated rejection when she finally pulled away, there was no trace of it to be found in her expression. She licked her lower lip, combing through the brown hair in need of cutting at the back of his neck. 

"Remus," she asked eagerly, "Do that again."

He was more than happy to oblige her. This time he met her lips with a greater intensity than before. Her lips parted like budding petals, her tongue sliding across his own, teasing and deliciously soft. The way she kissed him, the passion in her touch, he could almost believe their shared grief could be overcome by trust or love, or whatever this may be. But he was getting ahead of himself. Love was not an emotion he came across very often, and he hardly expected it from her. There was no point in setting himself up to for disappointment. 

If this was lust then he could live with that. It was better than nothing, which was all he usually had.

With one arm pulling her tightly against him, he threaded his hands through her hair as her ministrations elicited a moan of pleasure. She slid her hands down from his neck to deftly undo the buttons of his shirt, sliding the robes down over his shoulders, drawing him towards the bed. 

He wanted to protest, knew he _should_ protest and take control of the situation before something regrettable happened. But the look in her eyes allayed his concern. He had always known her to be a woman of conviction and she would have no qualms telling him to stop if she felt uncomfortable. The expression of tenderness and desire on her face told him she was far from feeling that way. 

In a joint effort they tugged at her clothing, freeing her from the confining fabric and tossing it to the floor. Her body was soft against him, hands roaming across a plane of pale, slightly freckled skin and graceful curves. Inwardly, he marveled at how well the bland, unremarkable garb of a Hogwarts professor had hidden the slender, feminine form before him now. It was difficult to reconcile the default image in his mind of the austere Transfigurations teacher with the flushed and fiery woman pulling him down against her.

Beneath her lips, _god_, her lips, melted a tension in his muscles that had been imperceptible before. Everything about her made him burn. If he wasn't careful, it occurred to him, he felt as though he could be consumed by the intensity of it all. Her tongue was moving across his throat, dancing against the sensitive skin in glorious little performances. She gasped as he rocked against her, sending shivers of pleasure through his body.

"Remus…" she moaned. He could feel her teeth against his earlobe. With every movement he found his resolve weakening. Her hands roamed up and down his back, nails cutting into him sharply, but he hardly cared. Any scars of her doing, he would not mind bearing. 

In the damp chill of Grimmauld Place she felt illuminated. His normally benign, unthreatening countenance smoldered with desire. She felt foolish to think anything would ever come of this, but she wanted his voice to speak to her like that again, wanted him crushed alongside her like this because it was so easy to lose herself like this.

Drinking in every sensation and touch and thrill of excitement coursing through her veins, the cold walls built around her heart and mind began to thaw and her careful brand of academic indifference was reduced to ashes in his arms. He breathed her name and she clutched at him, caressing scar tissues and skin, tracing the curve of his jaw with her mouth. She urged him on, greeting his every thrust and touch with greater intensity and vigor. 

She arched against him, breaking the leaden silence with her cries. Unable to endure any longer, he succumbs to release, senses overwhelmed by a flood of pleasure as he collapsed against her.

His forehead lay against hers, eyes closed, their noses nuzzling as he supported himself above her. They were both panting heavily and he could feel the warm breeze of her breath against his damp neck.

A strange mix of scents and tastes flooded his acute senses, sensations he had never, ever associated with cool, detached Minerva McGonagall before. Sweat and sex. Old dust, and lilac, tripping under the windowsill, and perfume barely discernible on her fevered skin. Tea flavored with something sweet and intangible that lingered on his tongue. New impressions of old friends. He liked this side of her very, very much.

Reaching up, she drew him in for one final kiss, slower, more chaste and sweet than before. He shifted sideways, one hand resting lightly on her waist.

They caught their breath for a moment, breathing quietly and feeling the gentle rise and fall of the other's chest against their own.

Feather light, she twirled her fingers through the silver hair at his temples.

"Very distinguished," she said, decidedly.

He smiled, doubting whether he had ever more enjoyed the company of an old friend.

---

According to the Harry Potter Lexicon, moonstone helps the user obtain emotional balance. Ashwinder eggs are used in Love Potions. 


End file.
